He gets in, shuts the door, and starts talking. His cologne drifts in, the scent of sandalwood and musk overwhelming mysenses in a subtle but powerful way. I try not to think about it—even if I do love it.
“We’re just going to pick up John and Maria from their place while they drop off their car. They live half a mile down the road. It’s not really safe to leave their car here, and I figured it’d be easier if we all just ride together.”
“That makes sense.” There are parts of Recife where you wouldn’t worry too much about leaving a car out, and areas where you absolutely would.
Brazil is just the kind of country that feels like it lives in the ‘gray area’ of life. Nothing is purely black and white. The people are some of the warmest you’ll ever meet—hospitality is next level. You never leave someone’s house hungry, that’s for sure. People take you in, feed you, and make you feel at home.
But then there’s the divide between the rich and poor. And with it, the reality that some areas just aren’t safe. You don’t wear flashy jewelry. You don’t carry anything that might beg to be stolen if you’re walking through certain neighborhoods.
I still remember the day that I was walking down the street with a churro in my hand—crispy, hot, coated in cinnamon sugar, stuffed with dulce de leche. I had just bought it—it was in my hand. As I lifted it toward my mouth, ready for the first bite, two-thirds of it vanished.
Ripped straight out of my hand.
My jaw dropped. The guy who stole it looked back at me with a cheeky grin, took a bite, and kept running.
Ah, Brazil.
We turn onto another street, and immediately the city feels alive again. The beach stretches out in the distance. This—thisis the Brazil that I love.
We pass street vendors on the sidewalk selling coconuts to drink straight from the shell on rollaway carts. White buildings on the right, the beach on the left. Music floats in from thebeach, people laughing. I can see people playing volleyball. It may not be summer yet, but Recife always has that summer vibe—just with a little extra rain during the winter. And even that season is already fading.
At the traffic light, I can smell the bakery’scoxinhas—that gorgeous golden fried dough filled with chicken inside. My stomach gives an anticipatory little twist.
“I’m not sure how much you’ve heard about me from John and Maria,” he says, glancing over. His expression is gentle, but his voice is deep, confident.
“All I really know is that you’re a businessman,” I say. “And your accent gives away that you’re from São Paulo.” I shrug.
“Well, that’s certainly a change.” He laughs.
“Why’s that?” I raise my eyebrows.
“Not that I expect anything different from John and Maria. I’m just surprised the rumor mill hasn’t come knocking on your door.”
By the way that he says it, I expect nerves. Instead, he looks completely relaxed, hands steady on the wheel.
“What do you mean?” I turn toward him.
“Well,” he says evenly, pausing for a breath. “I’m divorced. I have two kids.”
He pauses and glances over at me. “I’ve been divorced for a while now. But… at least you’re hearing it from me, and not from anyone else.”
Wow. Not the conversation I expected two minutes into a car ride.
John and Maria live about five minutes away. Why would he tell me all of this so quickly?
Sure, I’m physically attracted to him. But my brain has finally caught up and reminded me that I’m leaving in two weeks. Why would I want to dive deep with someone right now?
Apparently, he doesn’t think the same way.
And yet… I respect his honesty. Brazilians are vocal, warm, open with their emotions—but this kind of honesty is different. It’s deep and raw. It hits like an avalanche. Unexpected and impossible to ignore.
I admire that, too.
I’m rarely lost for words, but I’m not sure where to go from here. I don’t know if I want to unpack this right now. So I take the safer route.
“Oh. I hadn’t heard that,” I say calmly.
“I thought it’d be better to start the night with you knowing a little bit more about me.”
